


there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

by Narraboth



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: AU where homophobia racism xenophobia and misogyny are not a lived reality in the middle ages, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Slow Burn, also: love! intrigue! secret affairs! mon-ass being bashed!, some others incl. demon-el, tw: christianity and adultery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-07-05 01:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15853104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narraboth/pseuds/Narraboth
Summary: Anno Domini 1187; Kara's life turns upside down for the second time, and she learns that a journey to the Holy Land holds more than one treasure.-A Kingdom of Heaven AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First and above all, I owe many thanks to Cassie @mooosicaldreamz for the entire existence of this fic; couldn't have done it without her immense help and support.
> 
> Second, I apologize in advance for any outrageous historical inaccuracies. In some quite obvious ways, I’ve strayed from realistic depictions of the time period and its laws and customs (as, quite frankly, I’m not interested in invoking lethal threats of homophobic and misogynistic violence against any of the characters involved). In others, I’ve tried to course correct some rather egregious errors in the movie. The fact remains that I’m neither a historian, nor a scholar of medieval Western Christian theology or Islam and though I’ve spent quite some time researching the topics of this fic, I am still not an expert, and certainly not an entirely faultless writer either.
> 
> And last but not least, I know it's long as hell but I hope you'll enjoy reading!

 

 

> _Anno Domini 1166. From the chronicles of the scribe of the Imperial Court._
> 
> “The county of Krypton, small but mighty and prosperous, a jewel on the Emperor’s crown, fell to a savage attack waged upon it by its rival neighbours of Daxam this spring. In a brief but bloody siege, the seat of its ruling house, the family of El, was destroyed, along with all members of the family itself. The lands, though laid to ruin, have returned to the care of the crown. Lar, Count of Daxam pleaded innocent before the imperial throne when brought to justice for his crimes, citing the House of El’s following of an ancient cult and his pious devotion to protecting the faith as his reason for his vicious attack.”
> 
>  
> 
> _In the winter of the same year, from the records of the priest of Mivallée near Nevers._
> 
> “A young girl appeared in the town during winter, almost feral; she seems like one who has fled from war and seeks refuge. She will not say anything about her origins and bears no identifying signs other than a necklace with a small silver medal. It took great efforts for those who found her to learn her name: Kara. For the time being, the midwife by the name of Eliza has taken her in.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Anno Domini 1167._ _From the records of the Haute Cour of Jerusalem._
> 
> “A young boy claiming to be Kal-El, son of the late Count Jor-El of Krypton, has appeared in the court of King Lionel of Jerusalem, begging the king’s protection. After examination from the Haute Cour, during which he has answered questions about his origins most convincingly and produced the signet ring of his father, the legitimacy of his claim has been accepted. King Lionel himself has seen it fit to take the boy as his ward and a companion for Prince Alexander. The boy has taken a new name, choosing to be known as Clark of Krypton, but  left his house’s coat of arms unchanged.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Anno Domini 1174. From the chronicles of William of Tyre._
> 
> “Though he has only been knighted two months before, Clark of Krypton displayed valor and might in battle that put seasoned warriors to shame, distinguishing himself before all nobles of Outremer. As a reward for his service, young King Alexander has awarded him the title of baron and the Castle of Ibelin, that the new lord renamed Kandor in honour of a lost city of his homeland, with all its lands. The love between the king and his vassal was so great that many at court thought His Majesty would grant the hand of his sister to the baron when she had come of age. Though the lord expressed desire to remain unmarried, the question of Princess Lena’s marriage proceeded to prompt disagreements between the king and the queen mother.”
> 
>  
> 
> _Anno Domini 1187._  
> 
> Syria and Egypt have been united under the rule of Samiya ad-Din, whose armies now encircle the Holy Land, threatening to overpower the Crusaders. In Jerusalem, the leprous King Alexander struggles to hold the warring factions of his lords together while keeping his truce with the sultan.
> 
>  
> 
> A knight sets sail for home in search of his kin.

 

* * *

  

The winter of 1187 goes by without any disruptions to the quiet flow of life in Mivallée. For the fourth year now, peace is held between the local lordlings, no petty wars being waged between one and the other, and no illness decimates the people. It is the steady, tranquil rhythm of existence that Kara has grown fond of, one that promises no more turmoil to her than having to deal with an unruly horse during shoeing or reprimand her apprentice for some mistake. It provides her with the little joy she has managed to find in life.

 

That is, until the day a foreign lord and his company ride into town and for the second time, the course of Kara’s life changes forever.

 

She doesn’t see them when they dismount outside the forge and enter the small building: she’s busy hammering away on a blade, too absorbed in her own work to care for her the newcome visitors. Only when an unknown voice calls her name out, soft and uncertain, does she finally turn around, and her eyes blow wide in shock. 

The bright red S is not something Kara ever expected to see again in her life. She envisions it enough in her dreams: recalling the days of joyful childhood when it was drifting in the wind above her family’s castle on good nights; reliving the nightmare of seeing it sullied with blood on the chests of slain soldiers and her own kin on the bad ones. In her conscious mind, though, the sigil of the House of El is strictly locked away.

The sight of it now, on living, breathing, moving men is almost unbearable: the knowledge that someone again is bearing the sigil of her lost family shakes Kara to her very core. The hammer drops from her hand with a loud thud, but she cannot pay any mind to it, nor to the curious, questioning look on Alex’s face. Her vision narrows to the man standing before her, to the coat of arms displayed proudly on his chest.

“Would you allow us a moment alone?” the man asks, turning his face towards Alex, who draws closer to Kara instead, her expression clearly worried. 

“Sister?”

“I’m fine,” Kara croaks, her gaze not leaving the lord’s face. “Leave us, please.”

Though hardly convinced, Alex nods after a long pause and withdraws, leaving the last two children of Krypton alone in a room together for the first time in over two decades. Kara can feel her throat closing up, her body trembling.

“Is it you?” she asks, tears swelling in her eyes. “Is it really you?”

Kal is no less moved than her, a tremulous smile on his lips, hands playing nervously with his cap. He manages a short nod.

“It’s me.”

He has changed, that much is obvious. He has the tall frame of their fathers, a close-cropped beard framing his heavy jaw that’s peppered with white even though he’s barely older than thirty, and a pale face world-worn and sorrowful. Nothing at all like the joyful boy bursting with life back at the castle of Argo. Though he looks ill, pale and alarmingly thin, he is clad in armour, a blue overcoat with the family sigil on its chest over a mail shirt, a heavy red cloak lined with fur flowing from his wide shoulders.

But other things have stayed the same: the thick, unruly black hair and the sky-blue eyes that are the same as Kara’s. Kara finds herself drawing closer, reaching out, her palm settling on Kal’s cheek; he draws a long, shaky breath before leaning into her touch. Under the scratchy beard, her fingers find the outline of a little scar he got while playing when they were children. The dam breaks, then, and they throw their arms around each other, sinking into a tight embrace. 

“I can’t believe I found you,” Kal whispers, his voice hoarse. Kara presses his face closer into his shoulder.

“I thought I was the only one,” she murmurs back. “I never dared to dream…”

“I know.” His embrace is strong, warm. “I know.” 

It takes good moments for them to finally calm, the shake of emotion settling. Arms still around Kal, Kara draws back a little to look into his face.

“Did anyone else…?” she risks the question, a hopeful tone creeping into her voice. Kal’s eyes grow sadder.

“No. I don’t know.” He turns away his head. “It was only some years ago that I heard there might even be any other survivor than me and it took months to find you.” 

“Some years ago,” Kara repeats. She disentangles herself from him with one swift move.

“Kara…”

“Where were you, then?” she asks. There’s a sharp edge in her voice now that makes Kal wince, but Kara does not find it in herself to care. “If you could have come for years now, where have you been?”

“In the Holy Lands,” he answers, his head bowed, avoiding Kara’s eyes. “I was brought up in the king’s court. The wars, my duty…”

“Binds you to your new home,” Kara finishes. Her body grows cold. “I understand.”

“Kara,” Kal’s voice is pleading now. He reaches out to take Kara’s hand in his own. “It could be your new home, too. I keep a hundred men at Jerusalem, two hundred on my lands. You could be their leader. You _should_ be, by rights. You are my heir, the heir of the House of El. You deserve better than...this.”

The dismay on his face is clear as he looks around the forge. Kara can feel the bile rising in her throat at his expression. She withdraws her hand.

“I am no crusader and no knight either,” she says. “I’ve seen the flags of our house bathed in blood before, struck down into the mud. I want none of it again.”

Given the look on Kal’s face at her words, it might have been kinder to just slap him. 

“Kara,” he says softly, and she winces; the familiarity of it is sudden, overwhelming. “I am…” he hesitates, the words too heavy on his tongue. “I am dying.”

Kara feels the blood in her veins turning to ice then, like someone reached into her chest to rip out her heart: the irony of this situation is too cruel, too crushing. Kal opens his mouth to speak again, but a cough shakes his body before he could continue, and he bends in pain under the force of it, pressing a handkerchief to his lip. When he takes it away, tucking it quickly back into his belt, Kara sees that it’s stained with blood.

“The white plague,” he says, the expression on his face almost apologetic as he slowly makes his way to a chair. Kara follows him with her eyes, unable to speak or move. “A week before I wanted to set out for my journey… Well, you can see it. The physicians warned me to stay home.”

“Maybe you should have,” Kara blurts. “You could have sent for me instead.”

“And would you have come?” Kal retorts with a bittersweet smile, but there is no real bite behind his words, only resignation. “Besides, there is no guarantee I’ll even live to see the end of the year. My fate is sealed either way, but I will die happier, having seen you again. But I must beg of you again, cousin,” he says, reaching out for Kara’s hand. “Come with me. Do not let our house die in obscurity.”

It’s not his last wish yet, but it might as well be. Kara doesn’t know how to respond. She still feels bitter, dismay and resentment boiling inside her, but it all slowly stills as she watches Kal’s pale, trepid face, overtaken by compassion. Unable to find the words to say, Kara just takes Kal’s hand in her own; a gesture of assent, of peace restored. It draws a small, grateful smile from his cousin, and with that, the fate of Kara, the last heir of Krypton, is sealed.

 

* * *

 

Alex seems to know all by the time Kara pulls her aside, into their room. 

“Your brother?” she asks, almost unfazed. Kara shakes her head.

“My cousin.”

Alex nods, then laconically moves to start shoving what little belongings they have into a sack. 

“We move to Jerusalem, then?” she asks over her shoulder so nonchalantly that Kara’s jaw almost drops. Out of the many ways she’s expected their conversation about a long-lost cousin returning to her life and preparing to whisk her away to the Holy Land might go, Alex showing as much shock as she would about Kara telling her that they need to go to the market was certainly not it.

“Alex,” Kara starts, her head still spinning, but her sister pays her no mind. Kara raises her voice. “Alex! Will you stop?”

“Would you not like me to go with you?” Alex inquires, finally stopping to draw herself up, crossing her arms.

“Of course I would!” Kara replies, exasperated. “But I… I cannot ask you to move across half the world with me.” 

Alex scoffs and rolls her eyes, but the irked motion is tinged with affection.

“I’m your damned sister, Kara. You don’t need to ask.” 

Kara chews on her lip and stares at the floor, avoiding Alex’s gaze. They’ve always been devoted to each other, even if somewhat begrudgingly at the start. They’ve fought side by side and saved each other’s lives more than once and would readily do it again. Kara knows all that, but even so, asking Alex to uproot her entire life on a whim for her only still feels unimaginable. When she opens her mouth to speak again, her voice is very quiet. 

“This town…it might have been just a refuge for me, but it is your home." 

Alex draws closer then, grabbing her shoulders and looking deep into her sister’s eyes.

“I have no family left here but you. And I won’t let you go to the other end of the world alone.”

Kara nods and nods again, barely even realizing that tears start to well in her eyes as Alex draws her into a firm hug. She buries her head into Alex’s shoulder and lets herself be enveloped in the safety of her sister’s embrace.

 

* * *

 

By the time they prepare to leave, the prolonged presence of Kal’s company must have drawn the attention of the castle: they barely make it out of the town when a group of the lord’s soldiers bars their way, a serjeant heading them.

“My lord sends his greetings,” he says, bowing his head, though there is little sense of respect in his expression. “And bids me to tell you that you are welcome to his halls.” 

“I thank your master for his hospitality, but we are already on our way,” Kal replies in much the same tone.

“Now if you would just get out of it,” the Hospitaller by the name of Winn quips, drawing amused snorts from his companions. The serjeant does not join in, and does not move, either: his gaze shifts from Kal’s face to Kara’s, eyeing her coldly.

“That woman there belongs to my lord.”

“That woman is my blood and of higher birth and calling than your lord could ever dream of,” Kal responds. He doesn’t raise his voice, but places a hand on the hilt of his sword for good measure instead. “Now _move_.”

“All are free to make the pilgrimage to the Holy Land, as I’m sure your bishop would readily agree,” Winn adds with a bright smile on his face, blinking innocently at the serjeant. “You would not like to held accountable for putting their souls’ salvation in peril, now, would you?

Whether it’s the pious reasoning, Kal’s grim face or the fact that his men are outnumbered three to one, the serjeant finally moves after a long silence, pulling aside from the road without another word. The company rides on, heads held high, Winn winking at the serjeant as he moves past him. Kara stays silent until the town fades in the distance behind them, and only draws closer to Kal then.

“They had the right to take me,” she murmurs. He looks at her, narrowing his eyes.

“So did I.”

 

* * *

 

For two days, they keep a swift pace, their journey on the road smooth and blissfully uneventful. 

On the third, Kal’s cheeks start blooming with fever and he almost faints from the back of his horse: Kara can barely catch his swaying body. He continues the rest of their journey in a cart, wrapped in blankets, slipping in and out of consciousness. He grows frailer by the day, as if his quest to find Kara and take her with him was the only thing still keeping his spirit, and with his purpose now fulfilled, the sickness is now free to consume him, gnawing viciously at his body. Kara rides closely by him every day, trying very hard to ignore what he has said about the conditions of his illness. It’s an impossible task, of course, and seeing Kal smile up at her with deep affection every time he is awake and lucid pains her further, knowing that their days together, barely reunited, are now numbered.

As if to distract from the fate of her newly found cousin getting more and more bleak, the weather starts getting milder as they travel to the south. Italy offers nothing that Kara cares for. The rest of the company share Kara’s gloomy mood, their daily rides passing by in almost complete silence. Kal insists on having Kara and Alex train with his men when they are at rest. Kara has little care for the fights, but Alex is in her element, taking a liking to bludgeoning Winn day by day, a routine that the young German bears with humor. 

One evening, well over a week into their journey, Kara corners Winn.

“How long does he have?” Kara demands. “You know his condition better than anyone in his company.”

There’s a sorrowful look on Winn’s face that speaks volumes.

“I’d count it nothing short of a miracle if he lived to see Messina. It’s a wonder in itself that his body could take the strain of the journey for this long, but then again, he’s always been a man of steel.”

Kara turns her head and bites down on her lip, trying to fight the tears that threaten to start flowing.

“A week, then?”

Winn nods.

“At most. If he gets some proper rest and the care of good physicians, he might hold out for a day or two more.” He reaches out to squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry, Kara.”

 

* * *

 

They pass through a great encampment on the way to Messina, a gathering of pilgrims and crusaders from all lands and nations. Cross-bearing Templars and Hospitallers and nobles in lavish garb mingle with commoners in the crowd. Kal’s men make camp off the road, away from all the noise and tumult, but as it seems to be the routine now, trouble finds them anyway.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Has the wild dog been felled at last?" 

The question is followed by a crude laughter. Kara stands, loosening her sword in its scabbard, and draws herself up to get a better look at the speaker. He’s a nobleman, somewhat younger than Kal but with already gravely thinning hair, a nose that looks twice-broken, and patchy beard framing a bland face, his expression arrogant and gloating. Though he is accompanied by Templars, he does not bear their sigil, but rather a red lion with a golden crown on its head.

“The white plague. God’s righteous hand finally smote you down, Kandor?”

There is a wide grin on his face as he eyes the dark red stain on the handkerchief in Kal’s hand, but the lord’s face remains stoic at the insult.

“We all get our due. You will too, Count, soon enough,” he replies, and the stranger nods, still grinning. 

“My due will be sitting upon the throne, Kandor. It’s a shame you will be rotting in the ground before you could witness it.” 

When Kal ignores his provocations once more, the man looks for another target, and he quickly finds it in one of the two unknown faces. 

“Who’s this, then?” he asks, pointing his jeweled cane at Kara. 

“My heir.” 

That does seem to grab the man’s attention, looking back and forth between Kal and Kara, almost surprised.

“Is she, now? I’ve heard the talk of you setting out to find some lost seed of your house’s withered flower, but I never quite believed you’d really do it. A new pretender.” He pokes Kara in the shoulder with the cane, smirking when Kara grinds her teeth but bears the insult without retaliating. “It’s a good thing that she’ll see you die, Kandor. She’ll know what fate awaits the traitors of Christendom in the Holy Land.” 

He raises the cane, tapping Kara under her chin. 

“I am Count Mon-El. Remember that name.” 

Kara rips the cane out of his hand in response. The count’s Templars immediately reach for their swords, half-drawing their blades, Kal’s companions reacting in kind. Alex is at Kara’s side in a heartbeat, looking ready to bury her axe in Mon-El’s skull at his next move, while Winn places a hand on her arm, a warning to hold back. For long seconds, there is a tense silence, a wordless staring contest between Kara and Mon-El that only breaks when the count throws his head back, laughing, and waves his hand dismissively.

“Keep it, serf.”

He turns to leave. Before he could go far, Kara calls after him.

“My lord!” When he stops and turns back, she throws the cane towards him, perhaps with more force than necessary: he lets out a painful hiss when it hits his open palm. Kara grins. “How will you ride if you have no stick to beat your horse with?”

The count’s face twitches, and for a second, it seems like he might retaliate, but then he waves, irritated, and strides off, the Templars trailing behind him. When Kara looks around, she’s met with the anxious face of Alex and the downright proud smiles of Winn and her ailing kin.

“Good work there, cousin,” Kal coughs, his face twitching. “Daxamite scum.” 

Kara’s face darkens and she instinctively reaches for her sword, half-drawing the blade again.

“Daxam?”

“A junior branch,” Winn hastens to interject. “But just as fond of the remnants of Krypton as his forebears were.”

Kara thrusts the blade back into its scabbard with a huff, and Kal lets out a weak laugh.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to face him off when we’re in Jerusalem.”

“I look forward to it.”

 

* * *

 

In Messina, Kara is dressed in the colors of the House of El for the first time in over twenty years. When the red-blue tunic is laid out on her bed, she runs her hand timidly over the sigil on its chest again and again, hardly daring to believe its presence; her incredulity of her fortune feels great enough to rival that of the Apostle.

Ages ago, when the loss of her family and home was still fresh, she dreamt of such a moment, of being miraculously reunited with her loved ones, of donning the red-and-blue of the Els again. Now, with the once great and proud tree of her house having been reduced to its two last flowers, and with Kal all but on his deathbed, it feels less like a wonder from the heavens and more like the last act of a tragedy, and one that she must play in regardless of how deeply it pains her.

When she goes to sit by Kal’s bed in the infirmary, he is as white as the sheets covering him, his eyes hazy, and his chest rises and falls with ragged breaths. It seems like it takes some time for him to realize that Kara is there, but when he does, a smile slowly spreads on his face.

“I’m happy you’ve come with me, Kara,” he tells her, his voice now reduced to a croaking whisper. “Even if it came at a heavy price.” 

Kara has to bite down on her tongue to swallow the pain and anger that swells in her. 

“A price I would have preferred not to pay, Kal,” she responds. 

“What’s done is done. Do not concern yourself with me now, but prepare yourself for the life ahead of you.” Kal’s eyes are clear again, even if just for a minute. “In the Holy Land, you are not what you were born, or what the world has turned you into, but what you have in yourself to be.” Even though Kal has great trouble forming the words, the conviction behind them is unshaken.

“I wish to find peace,” Kara replies. “If it’s even possible.”

She knows what it is that her cousin is trying to tell her, that she should embrace this old-new life with open arms, and pretend that the soft tunic embroidered with the sigil of her once killed and now reborn family is not suffocating her. She is not quite sure if she will ever be able to do it. Kal, even when half-conscious and suffering, must sense her turmoil: he reaches out to her, taking Kara’s hand in his.

“Whatever your standing, you are of my house,” he says. “And that means you will serve the King of Jerusalem.”

“What could a king ask from someone like me?” Kara asks and Kal’s eyes light up, his face contorted in pain smoothening out for a minute.

“A better world,” he says. “A kingdom of heaven.”

“I fear I have little faith in that.”

Kal raises his hand with great effort to tap his finger against the coat of arms on Kara’s tunic.

“You remember what the S stands for in our sigil?”

“ _Spes_ ,” Kara recalls without a second of hesitation. “Hope.”

Kal regales her with a weak smile.

“When I was awarded land and title again, I could have created a new crest for myself. I could have changed our old one too, add the cross like many in the Holy Land have done. I did not want to. Hope is more powerful a sign than that.” A shudder runs across his body and he shuts his eyes, his face distorting again in pain. His chest heaves as he forces himself to speak. “And I paid my dues to the king and the land that adopted me as its son with my blood spilt in defense of it. If you do the same, it will be enough.”

Kara turns her eyes away and swallows.

“I’ll try my best, Kal,” she promises.

“I named my new keep Kandor after the lost city of Krypton partly in jest,” Kal tells her. “But it has grown beyond that. A little part of the old home regained, renewed, even if only in my mind. It was my refuge. I hope it will be the same for you.” 

Before Kara could answer, another vicious cough shakes his body, blood spilling over his lips. When it passes and Kara reaches out to help him, Kal shakes his head and grasps her hand instead again, his hold feverish, insistent.

“When I’m gone, you will be all that survives our house. Do Krypton proud, Kara. You have it in you.”

 

* * *

 

It’s late in the evening when Kara is roused from her bed and, accompanied by Alex, lead to her cousin one last time. Along the chapel’s walls, knights of the order are standing guard, all dressed in white. They are meant to seem pure and holy, Kara knows, but she feels as though she’s surrounded by ghosts. Wearing the same long white tunic, Kal is seated in the middle, in front of the cross, flanked by Winn and a priest. It’s clear as day that he’s fighting his very last battle: his  body is bent forward on the chair, threatening to fall down, cheeks sunken and pale, eyes half-closed, face bathing in sweat.

“Kneel,” Winn tells Kara, and when she does, he rises to help hoist Kal to his feet. Though clearly struggling, her cousin waves him back and leans forward, ever so slightly trembling.

“Be without fear in the face of your enemies,” he starts reciting, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Be brave and upright that God may love thee. Speak the truth, always, even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless and do no wrong. That is your oath.” 

His hands are trembling as he pulls the signet ring from his finger, once worn by the lords of Krypton, and places it slowly into Kara’s hands. Before she could even feel the weight of it, he slaps her across the face and Kara instinctively raises her own hand to touch the burning spot.

“And that’s so you may remember it,” Kal adds, falling back into his seat. Winn gently places his sword into his shaking hands, and Kal dutifully hands it down to Kara. The blade is cool in her palm.

“Arise a knight,” Winn says. “And Baron of Kandor.”

Kara springs to her feet, barely aware of the rank those words have bestowed on her. Before she could ponder on them, Kal murmurs something, then falls forward like a sack. Kara barely manages to catch him in her arms. He reaches out to her, his hand, hot with fever, pressing against Kara’s cheek, the same he had hit.

“Defend the king,” he begs her, the last sparks of his consciousness burning clear in the urgency of his voice. “If the king is no more…protect the people." 

“I will,” Kara promises, cradling his head. Kal responds with a weak smile and his eyes slowly shut, his body trembling in Kara’s arms. “Kal!” she shakes him. When he doesn’t open his eyes, she shakes his shoulders again, something scratching in the back of her throat. “Please, don’t go, not yet…”

Winn and the priest kneel down next to them, Winn gently taking the weight of the heavy body of her cousin while the priest starts murmuring in Latin. It takes some time before Kara recognizes that he’s saying the Last Rites, and even more before she realizes that her own body is shaking now, tears falling down to the white gown of her dying cousin. An arm is wrapped around her shoulder, a strong grip drawing her to her feet.

“Come. You don’t need to see it,” Alex whispers into her ear, and Kara lets herself be lead away, out of the chapel and away from the dying moments of the last son of Krypton.

 

* * *

 

The body of Kal-El of Krypton, once a Baron of Kandor and Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, is laid to his final rest in the dark, imposing cavern that is the great cathedral of Messina. He looks peaceful in death, almost as if he was only sleeping there. Kara takes the first standing, guarding him for a day and a night, not allowing Alex and Winn to drag her away until she is exhausted.

What she doesn’t know, though, is how to say goodbye to a man she has not seen for over twenty years, a cousin who is now nearly a stranger to her, a man whose title and responsibilities she is now supposed to bear in an unknown land far away. She stands awkwardly, hands clutched, and finds herself murmuring a last prayer for his soul, one that she learned ages ago in Krypton. Then, leaning forward, she presses a kiss to Kal’s forehead; her final farewell.

 

* * *

  

 

> _Anno Domini 1187. From the Continuation of William of Tyre._
> 
>  
> 
> _“The news of the death of the Baron of Kandor has reached Jerusalem in the summer, to the deep devastation of His Majesty and the court. His cousin and heir, Kara of Krypton, arrived to the kingdom soon afterwards to claim her inheritance, her appearance as the last member of the House of El causing even more amazement than that of Baron Clark twenty years before.”_
> 
>  

They part from Winn at Messina: he has to stay behind for a couple of days on the business of his order, so after saying their goodbyes, Kara and Alex board their ship with only the remnants of Kal’s company.

The weeks spent on the sea go smoothly: they reach Crete without trouble, take provisions, and continue through Cyprus, not having to clash with pirates even once, nor survive a heavy storm. As if to compensate for the calm of their journey, a tempest does catch them the night before they reach the port in Jaffa, shaking the ship and its passengers violently enough that Alex and Kara are both still green from seasickness two days later, when they ride through the gate of Jerusalem.

“If we ever go back to France, we’re taking the land route,” Alex groans. Kara lets out a hoarse laugh. 

“I promise.” She reaches for her flask, and hums unhappily when she finds it empty. “Let’s find some water first." 

Wading through a city buzzing with life, full of foreign faces and sounds proves quite a task, especially as they are both parched and tired. But when they do end up in a small square with a fountain and finally get to quench the thirst of their dry throats and wash their faces with the cool, clear water, none of that worries them anymore. That is, until Alex squeezes Kara’s arm in warning and she straightens up to find themselves surrounded.

Six soldiers encircle them around the fountain: their surcoats are all the red-blue of the Els, their faces grim, mistrustful and hands ready on the hilts of their swords as they regard Kara and Alex. Kara unsheathes her sword in return and rests it against her shoulder, staring back at them without a word, while Alex, still without a weapon, rolls up her sleeves and stands next to her, shoulder to shoulder. Their leader, a man about Kal’s age, tall, solemn and handsome, does not follow their example: arms crossed over his chest, he watches Kara curiously, as if searching for something in her face.

“You must have known him,” he finally calls out to her. With the unfriendly looks from his companions, Kara expected something more along the lines of Count Mon-El’s way of speech: the simple statement delivered in a calm tone takes her aback enough that she doesn’t answer immediately.

“Since you carry Clark’s sword and bear his ring, you must have known him,” the man repeats, seeing her confusion. Kara nods.

“A man my size,” he probes. Kara would agree without measuring himself against her: the stranger is well above six feet tall, a giant of a man like Kal. For clarity’s sake, she does step down from the fountain, to be at equal level with the man, and sure enough, the top of her head just barely reaches past his shoulders. She nods again, staring somewhere into the distance.

“With green eyes,” the man continues. Kara looks up at that, narrowing her eyes.

“Blue.”

The man looks at his comrades, then back to Kara.

“I am James Olsen, the castellan of Kandor. Come with us,” he says, his tone suddenly softer and warmer, and he bows his head, the rest of the soldiers following suit. “My lady.”

 

* * *

 

The residence Kal has kept in Jerusalem is more a townhouse than a palace, and a far cry from the magnificence of Argo, but it is also more luxurious than any dwelling Kara has lived in for twenty years. The sandy dunes of the desert felt less foreign to her than this house with its richly ornamented walls and opulent furnishing, the host of servants watching her every step, all the trappings of her new rank. For the first time since Kal’s death, since her journey and entrance into the Holy City, Kara finally feels the weight of her new inheritance on her shoulders. It’s stifling.

Once they’ve eaten and bathed, Alex all but passes out, the exhaustion of their travels finally catching up on her. Kara seeks refuge in her own chambers: the evening finds her in the lord’s solar, freshly bathed and wrapped in a light new tunic and cloak, basking in the light of the setting sun. She does not get to enjoy solitude for long: the door of the room opens with a creak, and the familiar form of a certain Hospitaller emerges.

“So the sea has finally spat you out,” Winn says, in lieu of a greeting, and wraps Kara in a rib-crushing hug. He grins when he draws back and sees the confusion on her face. “Seems like my ship was quicker, after all. Take a galley next time.”

Kara squeezes her arms around him tightly enough that he groans

“I’m glad to see you too.”

“Let her breathe, Schott,” another voice calls before Winn could answer. When Kara looks up, she sees James, leaning against the frame of the door with a warm smile on his face. “I hope you don’t mind us interrupting, my lady. _Ritter_ Winslow here came to visit as soon as he heard that you have reached the city safe and sound." 

Before Kara could answer, a monster of a black hound pads into the room, and letting out a loud bark, tail wagging, heads straight for her. Kara’s seen the same breed when they journeyed through the south of Italy plenty of times, and, on one memorable occasion, seen a similar dog pull a man from the saddle of his horse, so she just stands very still, a hand extended.

“The beast likes you,” Winn remarks as the dog sniffles Kara’s hand curiously, then licks her fingers.

“He was Clark’s dog,” James says. “Krypto.”

“Krypto,” Kara repeats with an incredulous laugh and crouches down to scratch the dog’s head. Krypto pants and licks her face in return. She feels something scraping at the back of her throat.

They sit together, wine cups in hand. Krypto comes to rest at Kara’s chair, laying his heavy head across her feet, occasionally lifting it to prod Kara’s hand with his nose, demanding his ears to be scratched. Alex joins them soon, greeted with another enthusiastic hug from Winn and a polite nod from James, and all four of them settle to drink together in considerable silence and peace. After the upheavals of the past weeks, it’s a rare moment of respite for Kara, and though still numb from all that happened to her on the journey from France, she intends to savour every second of it.

Across from her, James and Winn are sitting close enough in their chairs that their shoulders touch, and Kara doesn’t miss the way they lean against each other, Winn’s hand brushing over James’ from time to time.

“Tomorrow I’ll accompany you to the court to meet the Constable,” Winn says. “It would be good for you to acquaint yourself with the lords of the kingdom as quickly as you can before you go to see your lands. The king has already given his blessing to your inheritance of Kal’s title and lands but the more the nobles accept you, the better. New families or old, the lords of this kingdom rarely take kindly to strangers from far-off lands popping up with bids for a title.”

Kara nods.

“I understand.”

“The princess will be amicable, I expect,” James continues. Winn’s face twitches and he stares into his cup, as if he’s suddenly found something greatly interesting there. “And so will the Constable, they were both on good terms with Clark. But you can hope for little support from the Templars or their allies. You’ve met Count Mon-El already, I heard.”

She nods again, grimacing this time, earning a chuckle from Winn. James looks more concerned.

“Mon-El may be a sorry cockroach of a man,” Winn snorts into his cup, but James presses on, undeterred. “But he is also the commander of the third biggest army in the kingdom. He had little love for Clark, or his father before him, and he’ll have even less love for you, I fear, and _he_ will be king one day. The way King Alexander’s health keeps worsening, it might only be a matter of months.”

“Well, he is no king yet,” Kara has had enough talk of politics. “Crowned or not, I will not be intimidated by his ilk.”

A warm smile spreads on James’ face.

“No, I’m sure you will not.” 

Alex snorts at that, but Kara still catches what James whispers into Winn’s ear: _“She truly is Clark’s blood.”_

 

* * *

 

The morning finds Kara in the middle of the courtyard, sword and shield in hand, trading blows with James, with Alex and Winn cheering them on. It feels like keeping some semblance of structure in her life, a hint of normalcy, holding to a routine she’s become used to over the past weeks. It’s also, she realizes, a rather good opportunity to get some sense of her castellan’s character.

After half an hour of sparring, Kara comes to know the following: James is exactly as strong as he looks, quick, and strikingly level-headed in a fight, a gift that few men seem to possess. He fights fairly, without severity, but he does not treat Kara like a delicate thing. As she’s peeling off her gambeson, she notices a number of bruises already blooming, the one on her right forearm especially prominent when she rolls up her sleeve. 

The courtyard, already buzzing with life, suddenly gets a little bit more crowded: first, a pack of greyhounds trot in, quickly followed by a woman and her retinue. She must be of high standing, given the richly brocaded green dress she’s wrapped in and the golden veil hiding her face, but Kara knows neither the sigil her soldiers are bearing, nor any reason why a noblewoman of Jerusalem is seeking her house out. It seems James and Winn might be familiar with her visitor than she is: Winn, lingering in the background, looks decidedly amused, while James seems more wary, stepping forward to stand closer to Kara along with Alex.

She has no time to question them about the stranger’s identity: though Kara is dressed no differently than any servant present in the yard, the woman’s eyes quickly find her and she steers her horse towards Kara, getting close enough that her foot in the stirrup almost touches Kara’s shoulder. Kara can see her eyes now: two stones of emerald, fiery, inquisitive. She is transfixed under their gaze.

“Where is your master?” the woman asks.

“I have none.” 

The stranger raises an eyebrow at that, regarding Kara curiously, then raises her hand to draw the veil from her face. The sight that Kara beholds, then, makes her forget her own name: it makes her believe that the angels of God do roam the earth amongst mankind. She is young, maybe a year or two younger than Kara, and strikingly beautiful, with proud brows, a strong jaw and those enchanting eyes that Kara is already hopelessly lost in. The woman must be well aware of the impression she has made on Kara, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Give me some water,” she asks, _commands_ , and though a servant already rushes to obey, Kara waves them back and turns to fill the cup she drank from before herself, bowing her head slightly as she hands it to the woman, who empties it slowly, her eyes never leaving Kara’s face. When she hands the cup back, their fingers slip against each other for a moment, and Kara feels like a lightning bolt struck has through her body. The woman smiles again.

“I thank you for the drink.” Kara cannot shake the feeling that she’s being measured, judged, somehow.  “If you see Kara of Kandor, tell her that Lena has called upon her.”

With that, she turns her horse around and disappears from the courtyard, as swiftly as she arrived. The silence that fell over them during her brief stay is now filled again with the excited chatter of the servants.

Though she is long gone, Kara’s eyes are still trained on the spot where she stood before.

“Do you know who she is?” she asks, not directing the question to any of her companions in particular.

“An admirer, by the looks of it,” Alex deadpans. Winn grins and shakes his head, looking highly amused.

“I think you’ll learn soon enough.” He gives a gentle push to Kara’s shoulders, guiding her inside. “Now come, let’s get you cleaned up and into something proper for the court. You are to meet the Constable.”

 

* * *

 

The Constable’s office is near the great hall of the palace, a large, richly decorated room that’s strikingly empty when Kara, Winn and Alex enter. The curtains are drawn, shutting out the midday sun and shrouding the room in half-dark. 

Before Kara could spend too much time looking around, a stranger enters the room in haste: a middle-aged man with a grave look on his face, dressed in black over his armor, the king’s sigil sewn into his surcoat over the heart.

“My lord,” Winn calls out, bowing his head, motioning for Kara to do the same. Alex withdraws into the background. The man accepts the greeting with a quick nod, then looks at Kara, deep brown eyes searching her face inquisitively.

“It’s true,” he says, stepping closer, placing a hand on Kara’s shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze. His voice is deep, warm and reassuring. “You are Clark’s blood. He was my friend, and so I am yours.”

Unsure of what to say, Kara inclines her head again.

“J’onn, Count of Tripoli, Constable of Jerusalem,” Winn introduces him.

“The man on whose tired shoulders rests the weight of keeping the brittle peace in this kingdom,” J’onn adds with a fleeting smile, then motions for them to follow him into a smaller adjoining chamber. “Clark dead! It could have come at a better time. It was whispered in the streets that in place of the Last Son of Krypton, the Last Daughter emerged,” he turns to Kara again. “Rarely has the mere appearance of any noble caused such excitement in the kingdom.”

The last sentence is accompanied by a proud smile as J’onn reaches for his cup. 

“I have not come to seek fame,” Kara says. It earns a curious look from J’onn. 

“No, I imagine not,” he nods. “What did your cousin tell you of your obligations?”

“That I was to be a good knight,” Kara answers. The earnest tone seems to take J’onn aback, he shares an amazed look with Winn.

“I pray the world and Jerusalem can accommodate such a rarity as a perfect knight.” He sighs, his tone turning heavier. “Samiya ad-Din is a storm waiting to break over us and sweep this kingdom away. She has twenty-five thousand men in Damascus alone. If she goes to war, we will be crushed, and she’s daily given cause for it by the war-mongering scum like Lord Morgan and his fellow fanatics, the Count Mon-El amongst them.”

“Kara already had the pleasure of meeting his lordship,” Winn interjects.

“Then you know what a task it is to keep the king’s peace,” J’onn’s voice shares none of the cheerfulness of Winn’s tone now. Kara nods.

“I will do my part, my lord.”

“Good,” J’onn nods, and claps her on the shoulder again, then looks over to the spot where Alex has been standing with a curious smile. “And your sister? A knight to rely on as well, I hope.”

“A soldier,” Alex steps forward, bowing her head. Her face is slightly uneasy, her posture stiff.  “At your service, my lord.”

“Is that so? Kandor, I’d keep your sister for a few words, if you wouldn’t mind.” The sisters exchange a surprised glance, Kara shrugging cluelessly at Alex’s questioning look, but J’onn does not seem to notice or care. “Schott, show her around in the meantime. I’ll see you two at dinner.”

 

* * *

 

When they reunite in the grand hall, late in the afternoon, Alex wears the same black uniform as J’onn, bears the title of the knight of Jerusalem and accepts Winn’s teasing about her swift rise in the ranks with a smirk on her face. Kara congratulates her with a tight hug, but there is a thought tugging at the back of her mind now, one about how both her and her sister are bound in service to the throne now.

Taking their places for dinner, Kara feels ill at ease sitting at the king’s table with all the high and mighty lords of Jerusalem. Even with J’onn and Alex at her side and Winn across the table, it’s all foreign, dreadfully out of place.

“Princess Lena of Jerusalem, and her husband, Mon-El of Lusignan!” the herald announces, and all those sitting around the table rise to greet the pair, their future rulers. Kara only spares a glance for the count: now in a gold shirt of mail, he still wears a white surcoat with the red lion of his house and the same haughty expression on his face, along with the patchy beard and thinning hair.

The princess is another matter entirely. Kara recognizes the woman who rode into the court of her home and took the cup of water from her hand in a heartbeat; she doesn’t think she can ever forget that face, the arc of her brows, the sharpness of her jaw, the alabaster skin, the sphinx’s smile that is playing on her lips again as she returns Kara’s questioning look, calm and confident. Next to her J’onn asks something of Mon-El and he answers, tone vexed as ever, but it’s all white noise in Kara’s ears, her attention dedicated to Lena and no one else, even after Lena turns away. She is ripped from her trance-like state by J’onn tapping her on her arm, a silent warning: when Kara turns back to the rest of the company, she sees that Count Mon-El is eyeing her with an ominous glare.

“You sit at my table?” he calls out to Kara, eyes locked on her face. She stares back at him, unshaken.

“Is this not the king’s table?”

“Is it?” he jeers. “I have not seen the king sit at it for some years.” Mon-El sets his chalice aside. “I cannot eat, I am...finicky about company. In France, _this_ ,” he spits the word, “could not inherit. But here?”

The count rises from a table with a scoff, shooing away the servant who rushes to help him with his long cape, and steps behind Lena.

“I have business in the east,” he announces, looming over her chair. “My wife does not lament my absence,” he complains then, dragging a finger along her cheek in a mocking caress. Kara can see Lena’s posture stiffen, her face hardening into an emotionless mask, and she wants nothing more to step between them, to slap him across the face and hurl him away. “That is either the best of wives…or the very, very worst.”

There is no response from Lena, nor from anyone else in the room, and Mon-El draws himself up, stepping aside from the table to leave the hall.

“Are you going to meet with Morgan?” J’onn calls after him. Mon-El turns around, feigning offence.

“Certainly not, my lord! He is a troublemaker and in disfavor at this court, and I am a law-abiding subject of our king.”

J’onn glares at him, but leaves Mon-El’s words without response, watching with a scowl as the younger lord empties his cup, tosses it to a servant and strides out of the hall. He leaves  behind a frozen atmosphere: in the stifling silence, people carefully avoid each other’s eyes, and the princess sits at the head of the table stiffly as a statue, her face a mask of stone.

“To the very best of wives,” J’onn’s voice breaks the hush and fills up the hall. As he raises his cup to a toast, Lena’s face softens immediately, and she responds with a grateful smile.

“God bless Jerusalem.”

“God bless Jerusalem!” the rest of the company echoes, and the tension is suddenly gone from the room, the previous amicable atmosphere settling again as cups are clinked and emptied. But before they could return to dining, a servant steps behind J’onn and bends down to whisper something to him.

“The king would see Clark’s heir,” J’onn announces, rising from his seat and motioning for Kara to follow him, the young knight scrambling to get up to her feet. Before they can leave the table, however, the princess stops him.

“I will show her the way.”

Kara can feel the eyes of everyone on them as they leave the hall side by side, can hear the excited whispering, and feels blood rushing to her face. Princess Lena, however, seems unperturbed as she leads her slowly down the dim corridors of the palace.

“This morning,” Kara begins, breaking the silence. “I spoke without knowing who you were.”

“I knew who _you_ were,” Lena answers, a bright smile blooming on her face. “It’s unmistakable.”

Kara accepts the words without reply: something about Lena leaves her breathless, tongue-tied like a youth at fourteen, setting her eyes on her first love. It’s a new sensation, almost frightening in its intensity, but not unwelcome.

“You are the talk of the town today,” Lena continues; if she notices Kara’s dazed state, she doesn’t much mind it. “You certainly are an enigma, baron. The Last Daughter of Krypton, newly found.”

“I find little worthy of fame in being nothing but being the last of my line,” Kara answers. The moniker sobers her up, turns her solemn. “And even less in my own person.”

Lena looks at her with a mix of amazement and aching sympathy.

“The king seems to disagree,” she says, unwavering. “And so do I.”

“You know nothing of me but my name,” Kara blurts out.

“But I want to,” Lena replies, her tone firm. “I will not tire you more tonight, but I will visit you again soon.” She tilts her head and smiles at Kara softly. “I would like to get to know you, Kara of Kandor.”

Kara bows her head.

“I shall be at your service, Your Highness.”

“Good,” Lena nods with a pleased smile. “I loved your cousin, after a fashion,” she continues, her tone soft, almost wistful. The sentence is said easily, but the words press heavy on Kara’s heart. She feels even less prepared for what follows. “And I shall love you.”

Heart beating wildly in her chest, Kara does smile at that, a small, uncertain thing. She would do well to be scandalized, she knows, and pretend she never heard any of what was just said, but it’s hard when the words of the princess pull at her heart like that, when her soul feels like it was just touched by a small ray of sunlight. She hazards a glance at Lena from the corner of her eye and when the princess catches her, she sizes her up, regaling Kara with another dazzling smile.

“Do I frighten you, my baron?” Lena asks, intrigued and blunt in a way that sends Kara’s head reeling.

“No,” she says, and it’s _true_ : inexplicable as it is, Lena’s presence in her life simply makes sense, feeling as natural and as crucial for Kara as breathing. Her answer makes the princess stop and regard Kara closely, an unreadable expression on her face.

“And yes.” The young knight admits. Lena laughs. Her smile seems to light up the corridor, outshining the torches on the wall, even the setting sun in the East over the city walls. The light of the torches dances in her eyes when she draws closer to Kara.

“Why?”

“You are an enigma to me too, princess.”

Lena laughs again, delighted.

“A woman in my place has two faces; one for the world and one she wears in private.” Kara is not sure if it’s an excuse or an explanation. Lena leans closer, her hand briefly brushing over Kara’s own: it’s a feather-light touch, only lasting a heartbeat, but it feels more scorching than getting burnt by the scale of the forge. “With you, I’ll be only Lena.”

Kara’s breath hitches in her chest, then; it feels like time has stopped for a second, like the walls of the palace crumbled to dust around them, her world narrowing down to Lena’s twice-unveiled face. There is a spark in the princess’ eyes, and Kara is sure her face and her heart are open books to Lena now, but she cannot find it in herself to worry about it, not now.

“J’onn thinks me unpredictable. I _am_ unpredictable.” Lena lowers her voice to a whisper, like one telling an amusing tale. She opens the door behind her, but when Kara steps forward to follow her on instinct, she raises her hand. “No, that one.” 

She points to another door across the hallway, and slips into her own room without another word. Kara stares at the closed door for what feels like an eternity before she finds it in herself to turn her steps towards the king’s chambers.

 

* * *

 

King Alexander sits slumped in a chair. Even under the loose, flowing silk coat that covers him from head to toe, it’s apparent that he has a powerful frame, tall and broad-shouldered. It’s easy to forget about the illness that ravaged him, until he looks up and turns his head at the sound of Kara’s footsteps, and the knight sees the silver mask hiding the king’s face. 

“Come forward,” he waves, his voice muffled behind the mask. His hands are covered with gauzes and gloves. “I am glad to meet Clark’s cousin.”

Kara draws closer, then bends her knee, bowing her head.

“Your Majesty.”

“Rise, rise, I’ll have none of that,” the king says, gesturing to a chair next to his own. Kara hesitates for a moment before she rises and then gingerly settles in the place offered for her. She is met with the curious gaze of deep green eyes, the only visible part of the king’s face and so much like Lena’s own.

“J’onn has received you well, I hope.” 

“He has, my king.”

“Good,” the king lets out a sigh. “You will need him as an ally if you are to survive in this court. I am sorry for your loss,” he continues. “Clark…he was one of my closest friends. He was there when my arm was cut. It was he, not my father’s famous physicians, who noticed that I felt no pain. I could do him no such favors when his illness was discovered. The king’s divine touch is supposed to heal, or so they say, but mine seems to have poisoned those dearest to me.” He turns his head away then, glancing away from Kara, as if to collect himself. “The loss of him will be deeply felt in this land.”

He sighs again, then gestures to the chess board laid out on the table between them. 

“Do you play?” 

“No.” 

“The whole world is in chess. Any move can be the death of you.” A small, strained laugh follows that. “Especially here. Do anything except remain where you started and you can’t be sure of your end.”

Kara stares at the board and thinks about her days in France, of all the villagers she’s seen slain by one lord’s soldier or another’s in their petty wars, their crimes having been no more than being born and raised on the wrong lands, and long before that, of Krypton, the night she had to flee her ancestral home. 

“Sometimes, you cannot be sure even then,” she answers. The king tilts his head, watching her. 

“When I was eighteen, I won a great victory,” he tells her. “Your cousin was there too. A glorious day. I was sure then that I would live to be a hundred year old, to be the most magnificent king this land has ever seen. Now, I know I will not live beyond thirty.” 

Kara reaches out to pick a figure off of the chess board, fidgeting when she responds to him. She does not realize then that she holds the white knight in her hands.

“Twenty years ago I was sure I’d live my life in happiness and prosperity on my father’s land. Three months ago, I thought I’d die a commoner in some small town in France. Now I sit in Jerusalem, a noble of the Holy Land, and look upon a king.” 

“Fortune’s wheel is ever-turning.” There’s a bittersweet tone in the king’s voice now. “And none of us can be sure of our ends, not really, nor what or who may guide us there. A king may command his subject,” he continues, reaching out to push around some figures on the board. “A lord may claim his kin, but a man can also move himself. Remember, how so ever you are played or by whom, your soul is in your keeping and yours alone.”

“I will,” Kara responds, though bewildered by the king’s words. If he senses his confusion, he does not seem to mind it, simply nodding.

“Clark had a seat on the Haute Cour by right of birth. As his heir, you will now assume his position.”

“I wish to visit my lands first, Your Majesty.”

The king nods.

“For that, you have my leave. It is the Baron of Kandor’s duty to protect the road to Jerusalem and those who travel on it. Not just the Christians,” he warns. “I know well the savage ruins our brothers of the cross have brought down on innocents in the old lands and here as well, for being of another faith. God will judge them for that, if He wants to, but under my rule, all those in need of help should be equal before your eyes.”

“They are, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” the king slumps back into his chair. “Go with my blessing then, Baron of Kandor.”

 

* * *

 

Alex is held back at the palace to learn of her new duties, and so Kara and Winn ride back to the Els’ house alone. When they dismount in the courtyard of her house, Kara leans over to smack the back of Winn’s head. 

“The next time a member of the royal family appears here, you tell me instead of sniggering about it!”

“Confirmed in your estates for barely a day and you’re already abusing your power,” he complains, making a show of rubbing the spot where Kara smacked him.

 

When they are comfortably seated in Kara’s solar again, Winn already having downed half a cup of wine and sufficiently placated, Kara sets her own cup aside and leans forward.

“Tell me about her.” 

She does not specify who it is that she’s asking about, but given the look on Winn’s face, she does not need to. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen most of her already,” he grins in response, but when Kara glares at him, Winn clears his throat. “Alright, alright. She was a late child, almost ten years younger than Alexander, but they love each other dearly. When his illness was discovered, it may have shaken her more than it did their father and mother. She is a staunch supporter of his policies now, too.”

Kara furrows her brows in confusion.

“But she is married to Mon-El.” 

“A union of convenience,” Winn shrugs. “It’s an open secret at court that she has not let her husband into her chambers even once in their five years of marriage. He does not bear that insult with grace, though he does his best to find his pleasure elsewhere. If it wouldn’t risk the peace within this kingdom, Mon-El being one of the most powerful lords, I’m sure the king would separate them immediately.” Winn toys with the cup in his hand, a mischievous smile on his face, before looking up into Kara’s eyes. “Clark was to be named marshal of the kingdom at her suggestion just before he set out to find you, did you know? The princess admired him a great deal too, not just King Alexander.”

“I’m sure the good count did not take kindly to that either.”

Winn laughs.

“No, he certainly did not.” 

“So what is the count like when he’s not trying to provoke a duel?” Kara asks, and Winn pulls a face.

“Grand Master Coville likes to praise him as a man uncompromising in his vows for the crusade. What he means, of course, is that our future king is a rabid dog whose thirst for fame and bloodshed can only be satisfied by massacring every Saracen that crosses his path. The moment the army is in his hands, we will certainly go war against the sultan.”

Kara scoffs.

“Any other member of the royal court that is likely to be out for my blood?” 

Winn furrows his brows, thinking heavily before shaking his head. 

“I’m sure the queen mother would be, but she has retired from the court for over a decade, when it became clear that neither one of her children would be quite as malleable to her directions as she would have liked. She lodges in Caesarea now. She was the one who brokered the union between the princess and Mon-El,” he adds. “The count’s martial nature appealed to her more then than her own son’s striving for peace.”

“That does not seem to have worked out quite well for her.”

“No,” Winn grins. “It certainly did not. But now, if you don’t mind… The hour is late and I should be back with at my order’s house soon.”

Kara nods her consent and Winn rises to wrap his cloak around his shoulders and take his helmet under his arm, but does not leave yet.

“You’ve seen plenty enough of the state of this kingdom now, Kara,” he says, his tone suddenly more sober, more solemn than before. “Your lands are not the worst, but no Paradise either. If your duty here seems daunting…” 

“No,” Kara shakes her head. There are many things on her mind: her promise to Kal, her duty to her house, the promise of a new life, but one rises above them all, a pair of bewitching green eyes that she cannot cast out of her thoughts, no matter how hard she tries. “I don’t think I will leave.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been 84 years but it's here and gayer than ever. Come yell at me @ narraboths on tumblr about it if you so please.
> 
> I owe many thanks to Cassie @ mooosicaldreamz for her help, as always.

The fortress of Kandor stands amongst yellow dunes of sand, on a hill above a patch of fertile green. Kara can spot the red-blue flags flying from its towers even from afar, and despite her best efforts, the sight of it, the promise of a new home makes her eyes misty. Riding beside her, James leans over and squeezes her shoulder in reassurance: Kara responds with a warm smile and presses on.

 

Soldiers carrying the El crest, _her_ crest, salute her at the gates, and when she dismounts in the courtyard and enters the keep, servants bow to her on the hallways, watching their new master with unconcealed curiosity. James waves them off and takes it upon himself to show her around, guiding her through the great hall, the armory and the like, before arriving to the lord’s chambers.

 

“Clark spent quite some time to hone his quarters to his liking,” he says before he’d push the door open. “Hopefully, you will like it too.”

 

The faint smell of sulphur lingers in the room, a reminder of the fate of its former inhabitant, and the walls are covered with tapestries, finely woven and vibrant in color. It’s not the masterfulness of their making, though, that catches Kara’s attention and makes her draw closer, wordless, to examine them more carefully. She easily recognizes the scenes they depict: the founding of the House of El, the building of Argo, the wars against Daxam. Choked up, Kara runs her hand over the fabric, over the proud faces of her royal ancestors, mesmerized and moved beyond words.

 

“These are…”

 

“Moments from Krypton’s past, yes.” James finishes the sentence for her. There’s a tender, wistful look in his eyes. “Clark was intent on preserving as much of Krypton’s history as he could,” he adds. “Futile as his work may have been.”

 

Kara feels a new surge of affections for Kal upon his words, warmth spreading in her chest: she feels even more fervently than before a wish for him to be here, for the two of them to be able to share the remnants of their history, to nourish its cinder.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, clearly concerned, and Kara manages a nod.

 

“I’m fine,” she responds with a slightly tremulous smile, then nods towards the coat of arms painted above the fireplace to change the subject. “New motto too?”

 

The red-blue sigil is encircled by two phrases: above it stands the El motto, _“Stronger together”_ , but below, new words – _“Truth and justice”_. James smiles.

 

“Yes. He rather liked that.”

 

“Not bad words to live by.”

 

There is a stack of parchments on her desk, lists detailing the extent of the domain and its riches; the number of knights and soldiers in her employ, the families on her lands, her new people, her new responsibilities. Kara skims them, barely able to really pay any mind to it, before stepping out onto the balcony. The large, open space and the fresh air are prove soothing, and Kara draws near the balcony’s edge to take in the view of her new home.

 

“Clark was an important man in the kingdom,” James says, glancing over the fields, sharing little of Kara’s nervous excitement. “Especially in the last couple of years. His lands... This domain may have been a generous gift a long time ago, but it is no Provence or Aquitaine, and he had little time to tend to them. We have lived half at war for long.”

 

Kara leans over the balcony’s railing and looks out into the lands, the green of the trees and the patches of fertile brown soil, the toiling serfs and the canals dug but left unfinished for the irrigation system that Kal must have started to build. It’s something tangible, uncomplicated, a task she knows how to carry out. She doesn’t realise there’s already a smile on her face when she answers James.

 

“It will suit me.”

 

* * *

 

 

The best nights for Kara have always been those without any dreams, those blissful hours of peace without reliving the horror of the attack on Argo, of fleeing through the woods and into unknown lands, or most recently, without having to see Kal’s face in her dreams again and again, pale, contorted in pain, with blood on his lips. She had less nightmares as the years passed by after Krypton’s destruction, until Kal’s death: since then, her nights have grown fitful again.

 

The night after her arrival, however, is different.

 

There is no clamour of arms in her dream then, no rough shouting or screams of agony, only a voice softly calling out her name. When she turns her head, she sees Lena standing before her, the same way she was in the palace, wrapped in an ornate dress, head tilted and lips curled into a mysterious smile as she regards Kara.

 

“I told you I would come,” she says; her tone is light, teasing. Even in her dream, it makes Kara’s mouth dry, turns her head dizzy. For a brief moment, she runs her hand over Kara’s forearm, sparks flying under her touch. “I will see you soon, Kara of Kandor.”

 

When Kara wakes from her long, peaceful slumber, there’s a smile on her face, for the first time in months. It slowly melts away as she recognizes the wickedness of her dream, embarrassment and guilt creeping up on her instead; but no matter how hard she tries to be contrite and expel the princess from her mind, she cannot expunge the happiness and the wishful anticipation the dream of Lena left in her heart.

 

* * *

 

It’s late in the afternoon that day when a servant rushes to Kara to inform her that a large group is approaching the fort from Jerusalem under the royal family’s banner. She straightens up, exchanging a confused glance with James, then looks down on her clothes and grimaces: she is stained with dust and mud all over from the day’s work, her hair a sweaty mess; hardly a look fitting to receive royal guests with. There is no time for even the slightest change though: riders appear in the distance, quickly drawing near. The lavishly dressed rider at the helm is already familiar to Kara’s eyes, even with her face obscured by a veil again. The leader must spot her among her subjects, too, stopping her horse when the company draws near and Kara feels compelled to step closer, bowing her head before the visitor. She tries to remain as reserved and courteous as she possibly can, but she can already feel blush creeping up on her neck.

 

“To what do I owe the honour, Your Highness?”

 

“My Baron of Kandor,” the familiar voice greets her. “I am on my way to Cana, where Jesus changed water to wine.”

 

The princess raises her hand, unveiling her face, to regale Kara with a teasing smile.

 

“Though it seems like changing you to a proper noble would be an even greater miracle.”

 

Kara tilts her head, furrowing her brows.

 

“If nobility is measured in silk and gold, you are certainly right, princess.”

 

Lena laughs, her face lighting up with amusement.

 

“I will keep myself from trying my tongue on you, my knight,” she promises. “But to make good on my promise, I shall expect your hospitality for a few days.”

 

“It is yours, for as long as you desire.” Kara bows her head again. “If you so wish, I will join you later. In _proper_ attire.”

 

“I expect nothing less, baron.”

 

Hours later, when Kara is finally walking back to the castle, she spots a white figure standing on the balcony of the lord’s bedroom, leaning against the railing.

 

When Kara steps out onto the balcony, Lena is already at the table, lounging on the divan with Krypto lying at her feet, gently scratching the dog’s ears. Krypto is the first to notice Kara’s presence: he jumps up to happily pad over to his owner and Lena’s gaze follows his path, her eyes lighting up when she sees Kara.

 

“Much better, baron. Handsome, even,” she says, looking Kara up and down with such vested interest that it makes the knight blush. Lena delights in that too. Kara clears her throat and looks into her eyes again.

 

“I’m glad it is to your liking, Your Highness.”

 

“The blue suits you,” Lena notes, smiling. “And so does wearing clothes befitting your rank. Is there a reason why you are so insistent to avoid looking like a knight of Jerusalem and a vassal of the crown?”

 

“I do not feel like my rank is befitting of me,” Kara replies.

 

The princess gives her a curious look at that.

 

“You seem to me more befitting of your rank, and perhaps even more, than many who hold titles and estates greater than yours, my baron,” she declares in a tone that allows no disagreements. “Now”, she pats the divan, her voice turning gentler. “Come and sit.”

 

The invitation is underlined with a soft smile: it melts away the nervous tension in Kara’s shoulder, and the knight bows her head in obedience.

 

“As my princess commands.”

 

* * *

 

 

The castle garden at Kandor is quite meagre, a small square of green within the yellow-red walls, but the flowers within it are blooming, and the shades of its trees provide refuge against the sun of the East. To Kara’s surprise, Lena seems quite taken with the place, and when she requests her host to accompany her to a walk for the third time within a week, the knight does not find it in her to refuse.

 

In theory, there is nothing scandalous about it: the princess is her superior and her guest to entertain, a simple, honest task in itself that could hardly invite scrutiny. But allowing herself to be around Lena feels like playing with fire, one whose flames the princess herself likes to fan higher with every moment spent together, and Kara is no fool: she knows well that she should keep a respectable distance from the princess and not encourage her boldness.

 

It doesn’t help, though, that spending time with Lena always proves to be an enchanting experience, bonding Kara closer and closer to her with an inexplicable but tangible force between them that can neither be defied nor evaded. It doesn’t help that there is always something terribly comfortable in the way Lena links her arm with Kara’s when they stroll together, the way she leans against her body, the way the sweet scent of her perfume mingles in the air between them. It’s a sensation that Kara finds herself longing for more and more, her inclination to struggle against it ever diminishing, and Kara lets herself indulge.

 

They pass by the entrance of the castle’s chapel, arm in arm, and Lena tilts her head with a curious smile.

 

“I have been here for almost two weeks now, baron, and not once have I seen you step a foot into the house of God.”

 

“I have lost my faith long ago,” Kara shrugs, trying to remain indifferent but she can feel her posture stiffen.

 

“Not something one would expect to hear from a crusader,” Lena teases, but it does little to lighten up Kara’s solemnity.

 

“I journeyed here to take my cousin’s place, not to bear the cross, Your Highness.”

 

The princess laughs.

 

“My good husband found great enjoyment in trying to prove your late cousin a heathen or a heretic or at times, both,” she informs Kara. “I see you’re bound to give him good sport too.” When Kara only responds with a curt shrug, Lena gives her an amused look. “That hardly seems to concern you.”

 

“I have lost my family, my home and my people when I was only a child,” Kara says. It all comes out very matter-of-factly, but the words taste bitter on her tongue, burning. “My only other surviving member of my house died in my arms not too long ago. What injury could the threats of a haughty nobleman cause compared to that?”

 

The expression on Lena’s face grows more and more tender with every word, and she stops Kara so that they can face each other.

 

“Fortune has not been kind to you,” she says, her tone soft, and she gently rubs her hand over Kara’s forearm. “And I am sorry for that.”

 

The usual playful expression is gone from Lena’s face now, replaced with a look of such sincerity that it’s almost hard to bear. Kara swallows and turns her head away.

 

“You were no cause of it, princess.”

 

“No,” Lena agrees and reaches up to touch Kara’s face, gently pressing for Kara to turn eye to eye with her again. “And I would hope I shall not be, either.”

 

The contact between their bodies is fleeting, barely lasting a heartbeat, but the touch of Lena’s fingers feel scorching nevertheless, as if a branding iron has been pressed to Kara’s cheek. She feels parched, and when she speaks again, her voice is hoarse:

 

“I don’t think you could ever be.”

 

“Don’t tempt fate, baron,” Lena chides. When Kara responds with a small smile, the princess tilts her head and draws just a little bit closer. “I hope this does not feel like punishment from heaven, then.”

 

“Most certainly not, Your Highness,” Kara replies immediately. It would be enough to leave it at that, with a perfectly courtly compliment, but Lena’s presence emboldens her. “Though I am not yet sure if it is all a blessing or the cruelest of temptations.”

 

She wants to curse herself the second the words leave her mouth and pray for a thunderbolt from the sky to strike her down, but the heavens seem to be in no haste to seek revenge for her rude transgressions. The sky remains clear, the sun’s light does not dim, and Lena stays unmoving in front of her, though her lips do lips curl into a deeply pleased smirk.

 

“You are a woman of multitudes, baron,” she says. “I confess I thought otherwise when I first saw you.”

 

Kara bows her head a little, though it does little to hide her blushing.

 

“I hope I have not disappointed you, Your Highness.”

 

“Quite the contrary. You delight me, Kandor.” Lena links her arm with Kara’s own again and leans against the knight. Kara is sure the princess can hear the thundering beat of her heart now. “Come. Tell me more about Krypton, if you please.”

 

Kara smiles and does as she’s asked.

 

* * *

  

Alex arrives a week after that, wearing a new suit of armour and accompanied by her own soldiers, and hugs Kara tight enough to squeeze the breath from her lungs. They trade only light jokes and smalltalk at first, as they move through the fields around the castle on horseback, Alex inquiring about the state of affairs of Kara’s new lands, and Kara asking about Alex’s new responsibilities at the castle guard.

 

“You landed on your feet,” she remarks when Alex stops talking, earning her a light shove on the shoulder.

 

“Yes, who knew that being your sister would turn out to be so gainful one day?” Alex replies with a dry smile. She steers her horse under the shade of a tree and stops, her expression shifting into something more serious. “I hear you have been entertaining the king’s sister.”

 

Kara snorts indignantly, but takes care to avoid Alex’s gaze.

 

“I am a courteous host, that’s all.”

 

Alex turns in the saddle to glance back to the castle. They are far enough, but a small, white figure standing on the balcony of the lord’s tower is still visible.

 

“And does _she_ know that?” she asks, and Kara can feel the heat creeping up on her neck.

 

“Is this your word or someone else’s?” The question comes out harsher than she intended, but Alex only snickers in turn.

 

“The king cares very little for what the princess is doing here or anywhere else,” she shrugs. “She’s been a guest of your cousin a number of times before, or so I’ve learned. And Count J’onn’s words were, I  believe, _“It’s good that she’s building alliances”_ ,” she adds with a bit too knowing grin that leaves her face as quickly as it came. “But people talk. Her husband returned to Jerusalem a short while ago, and he was irked to learn that his lady wife was enjoying your hospitality.”

 

Kara’s mouth twitches in contempt.

 

“I care little for his feelings.”

 

“You seem happy, Kara.” Alex’s face softens, and she reaches out to place her hand on Kara’s forearm. “And I am happy for you. You deserve a little bliss. Just… be careful not to get hurt.”

 

“By the Daxamite?” Kara scoffs.

 

“Or by her.”

 

“She’s a friend, Alex,” she says immediately, reproachful. Alex laughs and shakes her head in disbelief.

 

“She’s the crown princess. She may smile at you one day and have you beheaded the next, if her mood so demands.”

 

“She would not,” Kara declares, indignant. “She is kind and good.”

 

Her stare is met with a mockingly curious expression.

 

“You have a lot of faith in someone you’ve known for barely a fortnight. Nevertheless,” Alex presses on before Kara could protest again. “I have not come here to question her character, Kara, but she is high above you and you are playing with fire. Know that.”

 

“Your warnings have been noted.”

 

“And duly ignored, I’m sure,” Alex sighs, then gathers up the reins in her hands. “Let’s go back. You better have some good wine in your cellars.”

 

-

 

Whatever vintages Kal or James have stocked up on does satisfy Alex’s taste in the end: Kara watches with a smile as her sister settles back in a chair with a content expression, nursing a cup of wine in her hands and examining the tapestries with great curiosity and a little awe.

 

“You never talked about these things,” she says, taking a sip from the wine, eyeing Kara over the cup. “Your house, your family.”

 

“I didn’t know how,” Kara answers, staring at the wall. There is a great melancholy in her heart now where there was joy at seeing a piece of her past preserved before. “I didn’t have a reason either, I thought all my house was dead. Now… Now I know it for certain.”

 

“Don’t say that.” Alex gets up from her chair to cross the room and wrap her arms around Kara’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. “ _You_ are alive. Your legacy is alive, and you can make certain it stays that way.”

 

Kara sighs and lets her head drop to Alex’s shoulder, lets her sister squeeze and rub her arm in silent comfort. She cannot revel in it for long, though: the door swings open, and Lena enters, smiling and nonchalant. Before Kara could even open her mouth to greet her, the princess stops dead in her tracks as she spots Alex by Kara’s side and her expression shifts into one of cold courtesy.

 

“I didn’t realize you had a guest, baron.”

 

Her tone is almost biting now and her posture changes too, from the calm, loose bearing that Kara has become increasingly fond of over the past days into something decidedly imperious. Kara is baffled by this sudden change, unable to fathom the reason for it, but to her amazement Alex, though standing rather stiffly, looks unsurprised.

 

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Kara finally manages. “This is my sister, Alex. She arrived from Jerusalem just this morning.”

 

“Your sister,” Lena repeats as Alex bows. Her face softens slowly: by the time Alex straightens up again, there’s a faint but friendly smile on the princess’ lips. “From France, I assume.”

 

“Yes, Your Highness,” Alex nods. There is something strangely combative in her face, something that Kara cannot quite understand. Lena doesn’t seem bothered at all, though.

 

“I imagine the ride from Jerusalem was tiring,” she says, and when Alex responds with a curt nod, Lena smiles. “I trust you will dine with us.”

 

Alex’s eyebrow shoots up at the ‘us’, but she takes a look at Kara’s face and the unwavering smile on the princess’ lips, and nods again.

 

-

 

James joins them too, in the end, and the four of them settle around the table in Kara’s solar to spend their meal. There is a stilted silence at first, one that Lena seems to be determined to cut through, gracious but unyielding in her pursuit. She asks Alex about their time in France, then her impressions of the Holy Land, her new duties at the court, and Kara has to marvel at how she succeeds at turning the chilly atmosphere into something cordial. Around their fourth cup of wine, James is regaling them with some anecdote about Kal and the king, Krypto has his heavy head in Kara’s lap and Lena is slightly leaning against Kara’s arm and Kara wholeheartedly ignores Alex’s wry smile and pointed glare. The Kryptonian tapestries are still within her eyesight, but Kara feels no melancholy then, only contentment. She feels at home.

 

* * *

  

Despite Kara’s protest, Alex only stays for another day. She hugs Kara fiercely again and musses her hair when they bid each other goodbye, in the way she used to when they were children.

 

“Remember what I told you,” she murmurs into Kara’s ear when their faces are pressed against each other. Kara nods and smiles and watches as Lena waves Alex goodbye with a friendly smile, and deep down she already knows with painful clarity that her sister’s advice is one that she will not heed.

 

* * *

  

By the time a month passes since Lena's arrival, a steady routine is developed between her and Kara. Every day when Kara goes out to work on the lands, Lena stands on the balcony when she returns, greeting her with a wave and knowing smile, and once Kara has cleaned up they sit there, under the setting sun, spending their evening meal together. Lena is ever-present when Kara and James take to the courtyard to practice swordplay, watching intently, smiling fondly every time when Kara emerges victorious from the fight. When Kara sets a few hours aside in her day to pour over the records of her domain, trying to make sense of the affairs of the estate, Lena readily offers her assistance. It’s a strange, unexpected sort of domesticity, one that Kara imagines would normally be shared between spouses: it’s a thought as scaring as it is thrilling.

 

Kara returns so tired one evening that she all but collapses onto the divan, groaning as she tries to sit up and reach for the basin of clean water to wash her face and hands. Sitting across from her, Lena watches Kara’s struggle with a smirk, but the expression on her face is deeply endeared.

 

“Let me,” she says, soft but commanding, and standing from her own place to move to Kara’s side, she takes the cloth from Kara’s hands without waiting for an answer. Suddenly, she’s sitting all too close, her body only inches away from Kara’s own, her warmth making Kara’s head spin, and the knight feels the painstaking need to turn her eyes upward, lest her gaze should fall to improper places.

 

Lena leans forward, pressing the wet cloth gently to Kara’s temple, wiping away the dirt and sweat. Kara freezes, but allows her until Lena’s other hand rises to gently cup her chin, turning her head for a better angle. The knight draws away then, and Lena must see the anxiety in her face.

 

“This isn’t adultery,” she says simply but firmly. It’s almost a command and Kara finds herself drawn to obey it: she lets Lena touch her face again, relaxing into the soothing coldness of the cloth. Though she desperately tries to avoid even glancing at the princess, she can see the satisfied smile on Lena’s face even from the corner of her eyes, and feel the hand that as cupping her chin rising a little higher, a thumb stroking over her cheek in appreciation.

 

“But if it were,” Lena continues, undeterred by the slight flinch in Kara’s face. “Which it isn’t, the Commandments weren’t made for people like us.”

 

“Some would say that’s heresy, princess,” Kara breathes.

 

“Good thing there’s only the two of us here, then,” Lena smirks in turn. “Hold still now.”

 

A minute passes in silence, Kara still as a statue under Lena’s ministrations, barely realizing that she’s holding her breath. Humming to herself, pleased, the princess gently pats her cheek when she’s finished and sets aside cloth and bowl to fix Kara with her gaze again.

 

“Are you going to work on your land like a serf every day?”

 

Kara shrugs and smiles, almost sheepish.

 

“It _is_ my land, princess. Who would I be if I didn’t try to make it better?”

 

“I have been here a number of times before,” Lena informs her in a teasing tone. “Your late cousin never felt the need to dig canals or work the lands with his own hands.”

 

Heat rises in Kara’s cheeks, her face twitching at the mention of Kal, but she raises her head, proud.

 

“I am not my cousin.”

 

“No,” Lena agrees. There is an affectionate look in her eyes, and her voice is soft when she speaks again. “You are one of a kind, Kara of Kandor.”

 

* * *

 

Kara is restless the following morning, teeming with energy in a way that she finds hard to explain: it drives her to be on her feet well before dawn and circle the keep aimlessly for almost an hour. She fights a futile battle in her mind, trying to wipe the feeling of Lena’s touch from her memory, but it’s as if the image of Lena leaning over her is imprinted into her thoughts, even more dizzying than the sensation of her touch was.

 

Fortune, as unkind a mistress as she’s ever been, does little to help Kara’s struggle: she’s making her second round on the battlements when she spots the figure of the princess on the walls, facing the rising sun. Lena spots her before Kara could even think of evading and waves her closer with a warm smile. She is in a modest nightgown: the fabric is light, and as she draws closer, Kara can see her shivering underneath it in the chilly morning air.

 

“It is too early and too cold to be on the walls,” Kara says in lieu of a greeting, and takes off her cape to drape it around Lena’s shoulders. The brazenness of her tone, her motion doesn’t occur to her until she’s already drawn her hand back, but Lena accepts the cape with a grateful smile, drawing it tightly around herself.

 

“I wanted to see the sun rise,” the princess replies, then tilts her head to look up at Kara, flashing a smile that makes Kara forget her own name for a moment. “Ever the gallant, baron.”

 

Kara blushes and bows her head, drawing back a little, as if to make up for her former insolence.

 

“Ever your servant, Your Highness.”

 

To her surprise, her answer is met with a frown.

 

“I have enough servants, Kara of Kandor”, Lena declares. Her voice is as imperious as it is earnest. “I have not come here for another.”

 

A shiver runs through Kara’s body at her words, one of hopeful anticipation, one that she will need to scold herself later but has little care to suppress now.

 

“What have you come here for, princess?” Kara asks. Lena looks at her, a silent, burning stare: her eyes are clear and deep now, like a tarn under the rays of the sun. When she speaks again, though, her voice is so timid that Kara barely hears it.

 

“A friend, maybe.”

 

The sadness beneath it is so sudden, so mighty that it shakes Kara to her core, reverberating in her chest: she understands loneliness all too well.

 

“You are a princess of the realm, an entire kingdom is at your feet.” Her voice is hoarse now, trembling. “Do kings and queens have no friends?”

 

Lena laughs: the mirthlessness of it feels like a stab to Kara’s heart.

 

“Those in great power are destined for great loneliness, my brother likes to say,” she replies wryly. “My life is yet to prove him wrong.”

 

Kara wishes nothing more than to be able to kneel down before Lena now and swear her eternal devotion to her. It is a dangerous folly, this feeling, as devastating as if St. Anthony’s fire was burning through her veins, but it seems nothing less holy, less natural than a pilgrim kneeling before a relic at the end of their journey would be.  But for once in weeks, her good sense finally prevails and Kara just reaches down and gently takes Lena’s hand into her own.

 

“You have me, Your Highness. I promise.”

 

Lena’s wide-eyed, startled stare at her initial touch melts into something infinitely softer at Kara’s words. She nods, squeezes Kara’s hand and they stay there, fingers laced together, facing the morning sun. When Lena’s head comes to rest on Kara’s shoulder and Kara’s arm around Lena’s waist, it feels so natural that neither of them really notice.

 

* * *

 

The night when Lena comes to Kara’s room, the knight is bent over her desk, sifting through heaps of parchments and scrolls in her seemingly endless struggle to make sense of the runnings of her estate. It’s deadly quiet, even the scratching of her quill on the parchment can be heard loud and clear, and when the floorboards squeak under her visitors feet, Kara almost jumps out of her chair. Seeing who her late visitor is does little to calm her nerves.

 

Wearing a thin white nightgown and holding a candle, black locks cascading down past her shoulders, Lena seems almost like an apparition, and the thoughts flooding her mind would make one more devout than Kara cross themselves. Being as she is, Kara just stares in wide-eyed wonder, as if she was looking at temptation personified.

 

“I could stay here forever.” Lena’s voice is low, almost a whisper, and the smile on her face is so warm, so beautiful it makes Kara’s heart ache.

 

“If you so wish, this house is yours,” she answers simply. Lena laughs.

 

“Why do you think I’m here?”

 

Kara pushes the parchment before her aside at that, and leans back in her chair, looking Lena in the eyes.

 

“I know that Kandor is not on the way to Cana.”

 

Amused, Lena’s smiles only grows wider, her eyes sparkling with the same dangerous light that Kara knows so well by now.

 

“What else do you know, my lady?”

 

“I know that you’re a princess, and I’m no lady.”

 

“You’re a knight.”

 

“Neither earned, nor proved.”

 

Lena casts her gaze downward at that, her playfulness shaken by Kara’s solemnity.

 

“I want you to know that I’m not here because I’m...bored, or because I’m wicked.”

 

“Princess,” Kara says, standing slowly from her desk. Lena advances closer, reaching out with her free hand and softly, gingerly laying it on Kara’s collar bone.

 

“I’m here because I have never felt anything like what I feel for you for anyone else in my life.”

 

With her words, Lena draws her fingers across the length of Kara’s collar bone, running up the line of her neck until her hand cups it.

 

It is wrong, Kara knows. But when she looks into those green eyes, now searching, timid, uncertain, it does not feel like a sin: it feels like a brief moment of peace, a ray of light in the dark tragedy of her life.

 

“There is God in this,” Lena whispers, her mouth inches from Kara’s. There is no choice left for Kara, and even if there were, she is not certain she could convince her body to draw away. Their lips meet slowly, softly, and for a moment, Kara is certain that God has thrown down a mighty thunderbolt. The shock that slips down her spine is amazing. A soft noise arises from Lena’s throat as Kara’s hands slip to her waist.

 

The kiss draws onward into time, a neverending horizon. Lena’s mouth is warm, wet, and her body draws closer and closer until a delineation could not be made between them, her arms slipping around Kara’s neck, and Kara’s hands pressing into Lena’s lower back. There are no thoughts in Kara’s mind for the first time in months.

 

“I feel I have wanted you before I ever saw you,” Lena says on a gasp, when they break apart. Kara feels like crying, almost, because it feels true to her. It’s foolish and impossible. But the princess of Jerusalem is in her arms - what could be impossible then?

 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eyes on,” Kara says, raising one hand from Lena’s face and pressing it to her cheek. She watches Lena’s eyes flutter as she tilts towards the touch. There are tears in her green eyes.

 

“I do not know the way,” Lena says, soft. Kara nods. It is unwise, but she reaches again for the apple. She presses her lips to Lena’s again, feeling her eyes slip shut as they wind further together. When they break apart again, she feels Lena sigh.

 

“I will show you, princess,” Kara says. Her fate is sealed, as it may have always been.

 

-

 

Kara is no lamb, but her hand shakes still as it brushes across Lena’s collarbone, pulling the fabric of her light dress with it. The sight of her shoulder bared to the air of Kandor feels like as disorienting as a blow to the head or too much indulgence in wine. She finds her lips on the pale stretch of skin near immediately, and the sound of Lena’s moan spurs her on.

 

Her kisses press all the way up Lena’s neck as she works to loosen the ties at Kara’s neck. They are so close that Kara is uncertain how they might ever be separated again. Her sleeping chamber is warm, its window facing to the west as it is, and it feels a furnace now.

 

Kara manages to push the other shoulder free, and Lena’s dress falls then, slipping down her arms and catching between them. Just as she is about to step back and allow it to fall, Lena grips at her arms, a small noise coming from her.

 

“What is it?” Kara whispers, her nose still tucked into Lena’s shoulder. Lena is shivering in her arms, so far and away from the bold woman she has been until now. The urge to shelter her rises strong in Kara. “Princess, if you don’t wish to - ”

 

“I do,” she interrupts, her fingers digging into Kara’s shoulders. “I do want you.”

 

“You have me,” Kara says, pulling away from Lena’s neck to look her in the eye. But Lena is still uncertain-seeming, her eyes flicking around Kara’s face. Kara wraps an arm around her waist and presses them closer, willing her eyes not to look downward.

 

“I have the Baron of Kandor,” Lena says. “Do I have Kara?”

 

The question rings so loudly in the quiet room, so separated from the rest of the house. It is a question wrought with fear, wrought with the loneliness that has become more and more apparent in Lena’s countenance in her time at Kandor. It is true that Kara swore an oath to Lena and her family. But it is also true that the hot feeling welling up in her is not simply lust, or the devotion of a knight to her princess. It is something else entirely.

 

“You do,” Kara whispers, as fiercely as she can. “You have me.”

 

Lena eyes her for a moment, her eyes shining again, before she lurches forward for a kiss that is open-mouthed and passionate. Kara had been warm before, sitting at a fireside, but now - now she is in the fire, a part of it. Lena’s hands tug at her shirt, and Kara draws back just the slightest to pull it over her head. It lands somewhere away from them, lost in the fervor. Lena’s dress falls too, and Kara kicks it away from her, frantic to return to kissing the woman who has so captivated her. Lena’s hands trace over the scars down Kara’s arms from the smithing fire, and Kara turns them until Lena is bumping into the low bed.

 

When Kara draws away, Lena’s chest is heaving, her lips swollen. She looks a goddess. Like a woman Kara would kneel before for the rest of her life without question.

 

“Lie back,” Kara says. Her voice crumbles the slightest, low and taut.

 

“You command your princess?” Lena asks, her smile light and rare even as she does as asked. Kara can’t help but marvel at the woman before her. Her body is cherubic, soft and pale. Her cheeks are a blushing red, and so is her chest. But there is also the vastness of Lena’s spirit, present in the tease of her voice and the way her fingers reach up to clench at a spare pillow on the bed. Kara wants to press her lips to every piece of her.

 

“Only to please her,” Kara says, reaching to press her pants down her legs and kneeling in the gap between Lena’s spread legs. When her hand presses to Lena’s thigh, her body shudders in the most spectacular way, like a body of water a stone has just been dropped in.

 

“You please me,” Lena says, her voice nearly a whine. “Kara, kiss me.”

 

Kara does. Their bodies press together fully for the first time at Kandor, and if her sin shall damn her to hell, it is worth it in this moment. The warmth between them is all-consuming, frightening, and she feels like a young boy when she feels the heat of Lena’s center at her stomach. Like she could fall apart at the seams at any moment.

 

Lena seems similarly affected, her hands clutching at Kara’s upper arms and slipping up to her shoulders, fingers gripped tight. Kara kisses down her neck until the distinct line of Lena’s collarbone distracts her - she follows it like a dog after a hare. And then there is the valley between her breasts, her heartbeat as loud as a great drum, and so Kara kisses there too. Lena’s body roils beneath her like the sea, gasps and whines and moans.

 

Her hands do not stay idle. They slide along the available landscape, down Lena’s arms, down her sides, palming her breast before slipping to her hips and gripping her thighs. Kara feels as though she is her own kind of crusader, capturing her own Holy Land. Every surface deserves to be mapped and worshipped.

 

“You are gorgeous, princess,” Kara whispers, delivered right to Lena’s heart, before her lips ascend Lena’s breast. “I have tried so hard to keep from telling you.”

 

“Tell me,” Lena says, though the heat of her command is lost on the cry that drops from her mouth when Kara draws her nipple into her mouth. Her hand clenches tight on Kara’s shoulder blade, enough that Kara knows it will bruise. “God help me, tell me.”

 

“I have wanted you,” Kara says, and it’s a solemn secret. She has dreamt of Lena, thought of her every day, has sought her at Kandor in her time here. Has been a fool. Would be a fool again. “You are as beautiful as a lily of the valley.”

 

She turns her attention to Lena’s other breast, slipping her teeth lightly around the nipple and feeling a mirroring ripple of arousal when Lena moans. Her lips move again, down the ladder of Lena’s ribs, down her soft stomach, down her thigh. Kara arrives to her destination flat on her stomach, legs half off the bed, and lifts one of Lena’s legs until it rests on her back.

 

“You have me, Kara,” Lena says, and it is as much an assurance as it is a wish soon to be fulfilled. The full length of Lena is viewable to Kara from here, and so too is the open expression on Lena’s face, wrought with lust and with an unspeakable emotion roiling too in Kara. A sin is simpler when it is just that; mixing it with a virtue is something complicated, even if it burns in Kara’s lungs to let the truth sing.

 

She ducks her head and presses her lips then to Lena’s center. It is warm, the dark hairs there slick with evidence of Lena’s want. It is something else entirely. There is a library of tastes and scents in Kara’s head that she could compare Lena to, but there is nothing truly that approaches the reality. There is only Lena.

 

Time slips past her. Lena is alive with movement, her hips jumping at every pass of Kara’s tongue, her moans plateauing at high-pitched gasps when she applies suction. Chasing Lena to release is more thrilling than a battle or hunt; it is a God-given purpose that Kara takes on readily.

 

“God, Kara, please,” Lena gasps out, the rhythm like that of a prayer. “Please, please, please.”

 

“I have you,” Kara says, raising her lips just long enough to say the words, her thumb slipping along the bundle of nerves she’s been lavishing her attention on. “Let go, Lena.”

 

She does not know, in the end, how long it takes, only that Lena’s grip on her hair turns tight as a vise and her body shocks still, and a loud yell comes from her throat and that Kara would do this forever if given the chance. She lets Lena come down from her high slowly, pressing kisses at her center, then her thighs, then slowly back up her body.

 

Kara returns home at her lips. Lena doesn’t seem to mind her own wetness on Kara’s lips, just draws Kara closer and closer, until her arms are wrapped around Kara’s back. There are tears on Lena’s cheeks, and Kara kisses those away too, murmuring nothings into Lena’s ear until she settles in Kara’s arms.

 

“Thank you,” Lena says, her head resting on Kara’s shoulders. The heaviness of the words gives away the weight of her meaning. There are a thousand sentiments in Kara’s head that she wishes to yell to the heavens; she settles instead for gathering Lena closer and kissing her once more.

 

* * *

 

The first rays of the morning sun find them in each other’s arms, lazily stretching on the bed, Lena’s head resting against Kara’s shoulder, their hands clasped together. There is nothing between them but the quiet, serene feeling of joy, the contentment in the warmth of their bodies moulding together. Holding Lena in her arms, Kara feels finally anchored, like one having sought shelter at harbour from a savage storm, safe and at peace at last.

 

Though already wide awake, they don’t talk for a long time, just revel in each other’s presence, limbs entangled, trading closed-mouthed kisses. Lena is the one to break it off, tucking herself into Kara’s side and running her hand down her arm. Her fingers trace over the line of scars there, her touch soft, almost tentative at first.

 

“You have too many wounds,” Lena states, her cheek pressed against Kara’s shoulder and Kara only shrugs in response.

 

“They are just marks of my trade.”

 

Her words are met with a frown.

 

“I have seen battle-worn knights with less marks of their own,” Lena says, then bites down on her lip. “I hate to imagine the pain you had to suffer.”

 

“I got used to them over the years,” Kara replies. “Until gaining another was no worse than getting bit by a horse-fly. But they are certainly neither as valiant nor as interesting as any battle-scar.”

 

Lena turns her head and reaches up for a moment to cup Kara’s jaw, drawing her down to look deep into her eyes.

 

“All of you is of great interest to me, Kara of Kandor,” she declares. Kara feels a delicious shiver run down her spine at that.

 

“You really like saying my name like that.”

 

“Do you dislike it?” Lena asks, raising an eyebrow, and Kara shakes her head immediately.

 

“From your mouth? I don’t think I could ever tire of hearing it.”

 

Lena’s lips curl into a pleased smirk then, her eyes sparkling with joy.

 

“Flatterer.”

 

Kara laughs, the sound rumbling deep in her chest this time, and gently draws Lena’s hand away from her scars, to her lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.

 

“Are you sure you have enough rings?” she teases, running her thumb over the jewels on Lena’s fingers, then yelps when teeth graze against her shoulder in response.

 

“Don’t be an oaf,” Lena whispers, kissing the bitemark and smirking when Kara squirms under her lips. She seems to Kara like a woman reborn, her previous boldness returned after the timidness of last night, but not with a new feeling of freedom underneath it all. It makes Kara feel all the more enamoured. “They are keepsakes. This one I got from my brother for my birthday,” she points to the ring on her thumb, a fine piece of filigree work. “This is from France, an old family jewel,” her finger wanders to the worn-looking jewel on her index finger. “And this,” Lena says with a smile, tapping the ring on her middle finger. “This I bought right after I met you.”

 

It’s a golden band, the front forming two clasped hands that encircle a heart-shaped red stone: a love token, plain and simple. Kara blushes, her heart feeling like it’s about to burst.

  
“You lie.”

 

“I do not,” Lena retorts, smiling, and slaps her shoulder, then reaches for Kara’s left hand. “Take it from me,” she says, and when Kara nods, she slips the ring onto her finger, the jewel fitting perfectly. “See? It was always meant for you.” Kara stares at the ring, almost slack-jawed: it makes Lena giggle, and she draws Kara’s hand to her mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

 

“My heart is in your hands now, Kara of Kandor. Treat it gently.”

 

Finding herself at a loss for words, Kara surges forward, capturing Lena’s lips again and pressing against her, gently pushing her down to her back. She can feel Lena smile into the kiss, her hands sliding up Kara’s side to her shoulders, fingers skating over flexing muscle, then slowly dragging down on her back, over her spine.

 

“May God strike me down if I ever waver in my devotion,” Kara murmurs back. It’s not a vow of betrothal, it cannot be, but she says it with the solemnity of one anyway. Lena smiles up on her and her face is brighter than the morning sun and she leans up to kiss Kara again, soft but deep, a seal on her oath.

 

Kara doesn’t go out into the fields that day.

**Author's Note:**

> come shout at me at @captain-narraboth on tumblr (also at Cassie at @mooosicaldreamz if u enjoyed! direct all hatemail to me however)


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